


For Longing

by gelishan



Series: To The Realm Of The Sky 'verse [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Foggy Talks About Wanting BDSM But None Happens Onscreen, Like Massive Self-Esteem Issues, M/M, Pining, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-21 17:34:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30025365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gelishan/pseuds/gelishan
Summary: Everybody likes Foggy.  That doesn’t mean they choose him.
Relationships: Franklin "Foggy" Nelson/Marci Stahl, Franklin "Foggy" Nelson/Original Male Character(s), Matt Murdock/Franklin "Foggy" Nelson
Series: To The Realm Of The Sky 'verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2158503
Comments: 10
Kudos: 16





	For Longing

**Author's Note:**

> Major spoilers for [To The Realm Of The Sky](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27827968/chapters/68128351): this is meant as a companion piece. It does work as a standalone, though, I had a swarm of betas look it over to make sure. :D
> 
> Thanks to Carmarthen, Longdaysjourney, and Catholicism_and_comics for the readthrough. Thanks to 94BottlesOfSnapple for the joke.

His roommate is brilliant.

A lot of people at Columbia are, but they’re mostly assholes about it. They brag, they don’t study if they can get away with it, they’re too good to associate with anyone outside their social strata. Foggy’s one of the only people they’ll all talk to, and, well, he’s a special case.

Matt’s in no one’s social stratum, so he doesn’t associate with anyone. Doesn’t really talk about where he’s from, either, but Foggy recognized him. The young, rarely-sung hero of Hell’s Kitchen who gave his vision for an old man’s life. Foggy probably still has the sad, yellowed clippings at home.

Unfortunately, that meant Foggy hero-worshipped and slobbered all over him the first time they met. Matt’s polite and friendly, after that, but distant, and Foggy doesn’t blame him. He wouldn’t want to be friends with that either.

So they’re not friends, but in the abstract, he knows Matt’s brilliant and diligent. He notices the skipped parties, the earbuds constantly jammed in, the stacks of Braille textbooks. He just doesn’t realize what _kind_ of brilliant Matt is until he sees him at debate.

He _destroys_ the competition. Breaks down his opponent’s arguments with the intensity of a true believer and the tenacity of an 80s action montage. Pulls in supporting detail that has nothing to do with legalities and everything to do with justice. By the end of it, Foggy’s nodding along and thinking, shit, he’s right, Oliphant v. Suquamish Indian Tribe is one of the worst Supreme Court decisions in modern history. It’s criminal that it hasn’t been overturned.

Foggy’s never been so entranced. He’s not alone. People actually clap, at the end.

Matt’s ducking his head, he’s got this modest, gentle smile on his face. Foggy’s got a type, okay, and he’s got a lot of experience. He knows that smile. It’s an underestimate-me smile. A Jedi Mind Tricks smile, so captivating and soft that you start to think, hey, maybe those really weren’t the core beliefs I was looking for.

The thing is.

The thing is, Matt Murdock uses that smile like the Jedi he is. To protect people, to save the little guy from the baddies. He lives by that smile. As a kid with no powers, split second to decide, he put the little guy first. Saved a random old man, and paid a terrible price. As an adult, he still thinks that was the right call. That he was just doing what anyone else would have.

He’s developed all this rhetorical power, clean logic, and natural charm to Jedi Mind Trick the entire system into caring enough to make that same call.

Shit. Matt Murdock is going to get him in trouble.

* * *

Foggy’s usually good at avoiding Matt’s kind of trouble. He’s a realist.

He’s gonna be a trial lawyer because he wants the high roller paycheck. He’ll talk politics, yeah, but only because it’s fun to argue, not because he expects to change minds. He buys bulk detergent at Sam’s Club. He drinks whatever’s on special at Josie’s, because he’s there to get blasted, and let’s face it, it’s not like the other drinks are better.

He’s a realist about himself, too. And realistically, he’s nobody’s first choice in a partner. Holding out for someone specific doesn’t end well for him.

Oh, plenty of people _pretend_ he’d be their first choice. He’s funny. He’s sweet. He’s a _nice guy_. He can’t count how many times someone’s cried on his shoulder for hours and whispered, “I wish I’d met someone like you first,” like it’s a grand secret, a compliment he should be glad of.

He is, a little. He’s everyone’s second choice, everyone’s rebound, everyone’s what-if. The safe option. People come to him when their hearts are broken and bleeding and he patches them up. Makes them feel visible, lovable, and worthwhile, sometimes for the very first time. He is grateful for that part. Not to mention all the practice he gets with his skills.

But once people get back on their feet, they always move on. They remember him fondly, maybe even recommend him to a friend who’s been dumped, but they’ve got no more need for him.

At least he’s nobody’s last choice. He tries to be okay with that, but sometimes, it’s hard.

* * *

Jonas is the first one in a while who’s lasted longer than a date. This is date number six, not that Foggy’s been counting. They don’t do anything too fancy. Head to the coffee shop after Punjabi, argue politics, hold hands. Or at least, Foggy always makes a point to, because it’s hard for Jonas. His last boyfriend, Brian, wasn’t out, he told Foggy. Whenever they were together on campus, he’d stand far away, jerk his hand back when Jonas so much as brushed it.

(There are two Brians in their class. Foggy deliberately avoids contemplating which Brian Jonas could be talking about. Partly because speculation would make him an asshole, partly because he’s not sure he could resist the urge to dump a beer over his head.)

Jonas is smart, shy, sweet, and the second most gorgeous man Foggy’s ever met. Foggy wants him to know anyone should be proud to touch him.

* * *

After the debate, well, it’s not Foggy’s fault if he pays closer attention to his roommate.

Matt is a _preposterous_ do-gooder. Foggy noticed the headphones and the Braille texts, but he hadn’t noticed the letter campaigns for accessible ebook readers and against climate change. He hadn’t noticed the polite, friendly asides with professors about biased language in the text. And he hadn’t noticed how _effective_ Matt was. Now Amazon’s working with the National Federation for the Blind to make the Kindle accessible. The language Matt points out invariably gets called out or removed. And he does it without making enemies. Everyone likes Matt. Even Professor York likes the guy, and that man likes _nobody._

Foggy hadn’t realized how funny he was, either, until he overheard him talking to his scary hot Greek goddess of a girlfriend in the dining hall.

“You do have a beautiful voice,” Matt murmured, barely audible over the din.

She smirked at him. “Are you telling me I have a face for radio, Matthew?”

In his shoes, Foggy would’ve gone for the blind joke there, like “Well, you have the prettiest face I’ve ever seen.” Something to smooth down her ruffled feathers.

Matt just said, “Better than a voice for silent film.” She laughed, and the punch she gave him didn’t look like it hurt.

Foggy likes Matt, a lot. Preposterously hot is like the tenth lowest thing to recommend him. He wonders if there’s any way he can make Matt want to be friends, or if he really blew his shot with a minute of awkward flirting.

* * *

He breaks apart from Jonas, just far enough that he can breathe through his mouth, but he keeps his arms _right where they are_ , thank you. “I was not expecting that when you said ‘study break,’” he says dazedly. “Wow.”

“You did incentivize me to study hard.” Jonas kisses him on the forehead, then trails kisses down Foggy’s face until he reaches a place on his neck that tickles.

“Terrible sex puns,” he laughs, squirming under the touch. “I knew I liked you for something.”

Jonas nips at his throat and pulls him closer again and Foggy lets himself melt against the intensity of his tongue and teeth. Jonas is an _astounding_ kisser, Brian was a complete idiot to let this out of his clutches.

His hands are soft against Foggy, curved around his lower back under the hem of his shirt. One of them slowly trails forward along the waistband of his jeans. Downwards. Stops.

Foggy breathes, because this is the furthest they’ve ever gone before, this _means_ something.

“You doing okay, Jonas?”

In response, Jonas nudges his knees a little further apart. “Foggy,” he says tentatively. “Come to bed with me?”

“You sure?”

He nods. “I’m ready,” he says, brushing a hand along Foggy’s face. “You’ve been so patient while I worked through my shit. I’ve never felt pressured, I’ve never felt judged.” He kisses Foggy again, soft and sweet. “I wanna see what things can be like with someone like you.”

“That means a lot,” he says, and his goddamn voice is trembling. “Then let me take care of you,” he says, because the last thing he’s going to let Jonas think is that he doesn’t know what he’s doing here. “What do you want, Jonas?”

Jonas looks uncertain, terrified for a moment, and Foggy wants to tell him: _it’s okay. You don’t have to know. I’m scared too._ But it relaxes into a smile. “You,” Jonas says. “Just you.”

* * *

It’s a good thing he’s got the endorphins from that to carry him through the week, because Matt has lost each and every one of his.

Matt’s crumpled up on the bed. He hasn’t moved, as far as Foggy can tell, for days. He’s not even wearing pajamas, which somehow makes the whole scene sadder— like he weathered a storm and staggered straight into bed, too exhausted even to strip off his soaked clothing.

Grief shouldn’t be plastered to Matt’s skin. He should be flying high above it, above all of them. And now he’s crumpled up like a deflated balloon.

But Foggy can do something about it. Not something pragmatic, but he walks to the station and takes a detour home to Hell’s Kitchen anyway.

“I’ve got a friend who’s not okay,” he tells Theo. “He’s not eating, like happened to me after we lost Grandpa. What’s the blandest, boringest thing you could make him?”

* * *

Confirmed: Jonas has been straight-up ghosting him.

For a couple of days Foggy just thought he was sick. He didn’t show up to Punjabi, didn’t respond to any of Foggy’s texts. But it’s the fourth day, and he’s in class. He avoids looking at Foggy. He still doesn’t answer his texts.

Foggy will take a lot of shit from people who’re hurting. He knows the way it can make you lash out in all directions, against imaginary enemies and real wounds. But he won’t take shit from people who know better. Jonas does. Cutting him off without a word is the same damn thing Brian did to him.

When class ends, he follows Jonas down the hallway. If he wants Foggy gone, he’s going to damn well say it to Foggy’s face.

He crosses his arms. “I’m waiting for the explanation I’m sure you have,” he says.

Jonas winces. “Brian called me up the other day,” he says, and oh. That’s what this is about.

Foggy doesn’t really need to hear the end of the thought now, doesn’t really _want_ to. But Jonas keeps on going anyway. “He apologized,” Jonas says. “We talked through it. And… we’re going to give it another shot.” His hand twitches, like he doesn’t know whether to reach out or not. “Foggy, it’s not you, I _swear_.”

Like he’s never heard that one before. “It’s fine, Jonas,” he says. “Shitty of you to make me corner you instead of just telling me, but I get it being awkward. And see?” It’s the moment for a friendly elbow, but Jonas doesn’t seem to want to be touched right now, so he keeps it in his pants. Sleeves. “Told you half the queer kids on campus would kill to have you kick them out of the closet. Now you’ve got hard evidence.”

The silence that stretches is long and awkward and Jonas isn’t looking at him.

“No,” he breathes. Jonas’s eyes and his gorgeous cheekbones look guilty. “Seriously? You’re going to let him force you back in the closet?”

Jonas shakes his head as if to ward off the thought.

“That fucking _sucks_ , Jonas!” And it hurts. All of Foggy’s effort, all of his gestures and reaching out, haven’t been enough to convince Jonas he deserves more than this.

“I can deal with it,” Jonas says.

“You shouldn’t have to! You have better options!”

“I made my decision here, and it’s not you.” His voice is sharp and cutting and wow, so that’s what he thinks of Foggy. Okay. Wow. It’s probably for the best this is over.

“My ego’s not at stake here. A _lamp_ would be a better option! _Your hand_ would be a better option! I care about you, dude, and I’m worried!”

“That’s sweet of you,” Jonas says, smiling a strange, glassy smile. It should sound sarcastic, but it just sounds sad.

Foggy sighs. “So that’s it, then. Okay. Fine.” He closes his eyes for a moment to center himself.

It’s fine. Even if he can’t force a smile yet, he can give Jonas a handshake. All he’s ever wanted here was to be a steady hand for Jonas to hold.

He opens his eyes. “Friends?” 

That strange smile is still frozen on Jonas’s face. The face of the sweet, thoughtful, second-most-gorgeous man Foggy knows.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea either,” he says softly.

* * *

Sometimes, being the safe option doesn’t mean you’re safe _enough_.

* * *

He passes a few uneventful, bleak weeks. Goes to class (Jonas eventually drops out of Punjabi, and he’s not sure whether to feel vindictive or sad). Feeds his roommate potatoes and water and orange alcoholic poison, watches him literally beat the stuffing out of a pillow for a solid ten minutes. _That_ does some fun things to his psyche.

It’s one of those days, Foggy muses, nursing a sip of the awful Clubtails screwdriver himself. One of those days where Foggy wishes he knew someone else like him. Another safe option. It’s fucked up he’s even thinking that, he knows what it feels like to be second choice, but God, he could use a break from real human relationships right now.

And right when he has the thought, his roommate is _biting his neck._

His roommate, his brilliant, selfless, fiery-hot roommate who he’d thought was straight (though it wouldn’t be the first time he’d been an exception). That roommate is biting his neck, tonguing it now, each clumsy line burning like a fuse.

His broken roommate is biting his neck. His very, very drunken roommate. God, he _hates_ not being an asshole sometimes. He’s going to punch himself for this.

He grips Matt’s biceps and leverages him away, careful not to topple him over. “So many things we need to talk about first, buddy.” God, he sounds needy. He’s got to calm his shit down.

He rubs the bridge of his nose so he doesn’t have to _look_ at Matt. Because he’s turning down so many dreams come true here. Turning down the most amazing man he’s ever met, not just because of his face (ugh, but that face), but also because of his mind and his generosity of spirit.

He doesn’t know that he’s got the moral strength to turn him down a second time. He doesn’t even have the moral strength not to leave himself an out.

“If you still need a forget-my-ex hookup in the morning, I’ll help you out,” he says. Help him out, ha. Like it’s a selfless thing. “God knows this is the first thing I’ve seen you _interested_ in doing for days. Just let me know.”

* * *

He has the moral strength to wait exactly two days before asking again. Maybe he _is_ an asshole.

But his roommate is so brave.

He’s in the middle of the worst breakup Foggy’s ever seen. He’s just called in a child abuse case to CPS, which is its own kind of amazing— he’s barely recovered enough to eat and drink, and he’s _still_ got it in him to fight for the little guy. And now he’s been thrown a curveball about his sexuality and he’s just... moving forward.

Sexuality took years for Foggy to figure out. Agonizing over whether he had a real crush, or whether he just wanted to be like them. Whether dating got to count if it was just emotional phone calls and a few tentative pecks. Whether he was qualified to be queer if he hadn’t grown up _knowing_ he was different, knowing each slur and joke and discrimination lawsuit was for him.

Matt breezed past it all and said “It’s not a crisis if I’m sure I wanted you,” and Foggy can’t help but want to kiss him for that.

* * *

But he shouldn’t have. He shouldn’t have followed up on the drunken come-on. Should have known, the minute Matt said ‘ex,’ what was going to happen.

His kind of partners, the broken-hearted, open up about their exes constantly. It’s practically a pick-up line at this point.

He can’t remember a partner he’s had without learning their exes intimately. “He was an idiot to have passed you up,” he’ll say, kissing her on the temple. Or, even more frequently, “It’s okay that you still have feelings for her. You can’t just flip a switch and change that.” The bravest ones, and the ones who’re hurting the most, bring memories and fantasies of those exes to the bedroom. He never lets them regret it.

But Matt. He was hoping it would be different, with Matt, even though he knows better. Matt won’t even talk about his ex. Matt unraveled more beautifully than anyone under his tongue. Matt’s brilliant, and brave, and caring, even if he’s a grounded balloon right now. Foggy’s seen him in the air, knows what exactly he’s interested in here. He hates that he’s let himself hope.

“Just let me know if you’re up for a repeat performance,” he says, even though he knows it’s a bad idea. Matt’s wounded. Casual and safe are what he needs. The last thing he needs is to get caught up in a rebound before he’s had a chance to heal.

“Sure,” he says, but it’s tight-lipped. Disinterested.

“Okay,” he says. “Got it.”

He breathes out. Matt’s moving on even faster than most, it seems. But it’s fine. They’re better as friends anyway.

It’s fine.

* * *

He’s heard it a million times. He’s kind. Loyal. Soothing. He’s an amazing, generous lover. He listens. He makes people feel like themselves.

Some days, he wants to tell them to shut up. That he doesn’t want people to admire his great qualities, thank him for all the ways he makes them feel good. He just wants someone, anyone, to be with him because they _want_ him.

* * *

“...lieve they actually put her on a parade float with that guitar,” the blonde is muttering a few feet away. “Those things are combustible, aren’t they afraid of her flaming ego?”

It's the ego part, amazingly, that clues him in about who she's talking about. He grins. Nora, one of his least favorite people on campus. Self-important, thoughtless, a hobbyist who doesn’t seem to really _like_ any of her hobbies other than the attention they can bring her.

“Maybe they knew she was all smoke and no sizzle,” he says.

The blonde turns to him. “Seriously! Her parents are making her go to law school here, did you know? She thinks she’s too smart for the Ivy League,” she says. “Too much of an artistic genius. Never mind that she wouldn’t even have gotten in without her daddy’s generous contribution to the endowment.”

Sounds about right. “Let me guess. She’s also got a half-written screenplay and a penchant for dinner parties?”

“She calls them salons.” She grins, all incisors and terror. It’s one of the sexiest things he’s ever seen.

She extends a hand. “Marci Stahl.”

“I’m Foggy,” he says. “And how do you have the misfortune of knowing our mutual antagonist?”

She grimaces. “She’s my ex, actually.”

Yikes. “My condolences,” he says. “But congratulations on improving your taste enough to dump her ass.”

She tilts her head. “You’re cute,” she says. “Do you do tricks, too?”

Well. That just shot to the top of his list of favorite pick-up lines ever. “I can roll over,” he says. “Just so long as you don’t expect me to play dead.”

“Oh,” she says, a glint in her eye, “I think I can expect a lot from you, Foggy.”

* * *

When the pillow talk gets to juicy ex gossip and he mentions Jonas, she jerks in surprise.

“What?” he asks.

“When boys tell me they’re bi, I don’t expect them to mean it,” she says bluntly. “You’re the first one I’ve met with some actual experience under his belt.”

“Okay, first, that’s a shitty thing to say. I didn’t turn bi by shoving a dick in my mouth,” he says. “I became bi when it occurred to me that might be fun. Getting luckier than other bi guys, pun _entirely_ intended, doesn’t make me bi-er.” 

“But getting luckier does mean you tried harder,” she says, and raises an eyebrow.

“Marci Stahl, was that a _pun_ I just heard?”

“Not on your life, Foggy Bear,” she says, but she’s smiling. She taps her fingernails against the table. “I’m just saying, you don’t get what you want unless you go for it, and you did. They didn’t.”

“Maybe I didn’t have to go for anything. Maybe I’m irresistible.” He grins.

When she looks at him, a few of the edges have been buffed off her smile. “Maybe you are.”

* * *

Marci _likes_ viciously making fun of their classmates with him. She _likes_ sharing juicy gossip about their sex lives. (He doesn’t tell her many details of his history, because again, he’s a realist. He knows that anything he says is gonna make the rounds. But a few of the people he patched up were assholes and he regrets making them think they were lovable, and maybe this will take them back down a peg.) 

She likes sticking her tongue in his mouth. She kisses like she mocks: vicious, pointed, and specific. It’s fun to be on the defensive side for a change.

What’s best about Marci is she doesn’t need him for anything. She’s not broken. She just enjoys doing things with him.

It’s not quite being wanted, longed for, but it’s the closest he’s ever had and he’s content.

* * *

Today has been a bad day for her. A bad, long day, and she wants him to know about it.

“The hoops they’re making me jump through for this internship… I just want to scream in their faces, Foggy,” she says into his chest. “And _hit_ things. Or at least scratch them up a little.”

Huh.

For a lot of people, that would be hyperbole. Marci might even think she’s being hyperbolic. He doesn’t think so, though. Not with the dark, gleeful way she said ’scratch them up.’ That’s a sound you don’t make without some experience or some seriously concerted wishful thinking.

All right, good. Very good. He doesn’t really have hard-coded preferences, other than making people happy— but if he has a favorite, this is it. He likes people getting rough with him, likes the way it centers him in his body. He’s had the itch for it ever since Matt gripped him harder than anyone else had in his life and he came in like two seconds. No, since before that. Since watching Matt Murdock punch a pillow until it burst at the seams.

He tightens his arms around her in a quick squeeze. “I’m sorry, Marce. That does sound like a shitty day.” He starts to stroke her hair, because this can be a delicate topic, and he doesn’t _think_ he’s going to upset her, but it’s good to have the moves on deck. “But you scratching and hitting things? The opposite,” he says, casually. “Sounds like a very fun evening.”

She pulls away sharply to stare at him. Her expression’s so blank he’s not entirely sure she gets it.

What the hell. In for a penny. “The screaming sounds fun too, if you play your cards right.”

She finally finds her voice. “Seriously?” Her voice scrapes like gravel.

“Absolutely.”

And he knows he’s made the right call, because her grin expands wider and wider into something delighted and nasty. “I _knew_ I could expect a lot from you, Foggy-Bear.”

* * *

Marci’s smart, perceptive. She notices all the little details— you’ve got to as a lawyer. Have to love combing through transcripts for the right facts and precedent for the right argument. And she’s a woman in their dude-heavy field, which means she’s got practice looking past people’s egos, past their platitudes, to what their actions really _mean._

So this shouldn’t really be a surprise, but it is.

“You’ve got a lot of exes, Foggy,” she says, expression neutral, head comfortably pillowed on Foggy’s lap. “Should I be worried?”

He hasn’t mentioned many exes. Jonas, obviously. Mary from high school, because it had really hurt him, unwittingly being the homewrecker. But she’s talking about lots of exes, which means she’s noticed how many people wave to him across the courtyard, how many stand just a little close to him when they talk, touch him a little too freely.

He feels himself tensing up a little. He’s not used to talking about this, he’s not really sure how people are going to receive it. But it’s a fair question. Plus, if she tells the whole school, it’s not like people don’t already know.

“I’ve only got a few real exes,” he says. “The rest are…”

He explains it, haltingly. Being the class flirt, but the sweet one, the safe one, the responsible one. All the joking flirtations that people take him up on when their self esteem is low enough. How he takes that responsibility seriously, how he’d never, ever hurt them with it.

As he explains, her eyebrows are rising higher and higher. “How many people are we talking here?”

“You slut-shaming me, Stahl?” He does his best to make it come out joking, but it stings a little. This _matters_ to him.

She smiles, softer than her usual smile, and reaches up to touch his face. “More like trying to figure out how smug I should be to have landed you.”

He sighs. “Not very,” he says, brutally honest. “I don’t get a lot of repeat customers. Though I don’t get complaints, either, and I do get referrals. But as for first time customers…”

He tries to think. He’s never actually tried to quantify this before. “This is gonna take a minute,” he says. “Got a notepad?”

A few minutes and a page of names he’s going to scribble over and shred up later, he’s got his answer.

“Forty-three, give or take,” he says, and can’t resist the nervous joke. “Or sometimes both.”

“Forty-three?” she says disbelievingly. “When did you have time to _sleep_?”

He shrugs. “No rest for the wicked?” he says. “It’s like any other kind of social life. You make the time.”

She nods, quietly accepting. It musses her hair adorably against his thighs. “What’s in it for you, though?”

“You mean besides the fun?”

She purses her lips. “They can’t all have been fun, Foggy. No one’s that lucky.”

“It was fun,” he says firmly. Her lips are still pursed and he takes the opportunity to kiss the expression, deliberately squashing the irritation out of them with the full weight of his face until they curl up into a laugh. “I like knowing how people interact with the world, and I like making them happy. Plus it’s educational,” he says. “People are so creative, Marce, I had no idea it was _possible_ to fetishize some of these things.”

“And realistically, it’s all most people are interested in with me.” It’s not a comfortable thing to admit, but he’s not gonna _lie_ about it. “If it’s that or be lonely, I think the choice is obvious.”

She frowns at that. “You deserve better,” she says, the serious expression looking out of place on her face.

He ruffles her hair some more, and she makes a muffled squeak of protest. “Well, now I‘ve got better,” he says.

“Thanks, Foggy.” He thinks she’s going to finish with something obvious, like ‘for trusting me’, but he should know better. It’s Marci. “For making me look good enough to keep the school stud on my leash.”

He grins and brushes her hair back. No need to mention no one’s applied for the position before. He’s pretty sure she already knows.

* * *

A few months in, Marci finally opens up about her ex.

“It wasn’t even the cheating,” she says, waving her martini glass for emphasis. A little of her drink sloshes over the side. “I could’ve gotten over the cheating. But the lying about it, for months?” She sighs and sets it down. “I can’t believe I’m drunk enough to say this, but it hurt, Foggy. Like I wasn’t even worth being honest with.”

“She was an idiot to have done that to you,” he says, a phrase that’s long-polished but no less sincere for it. He kisses her on the forehead.

She leans into it, eyes glimmering and soft. “I love you, babe,” she says. “You know that?”

He didn’t. It’s not a surprise, exactly, except that it’s a surprise to hear Marci say it about anyone and to hear anyone say it about him. But it’s been six months and they haven’t gotten sick of spending time together, the sex is great, and Marci’s amazing. Smart, funny in this dry, mean way, cute as a button.

It makes sense. And any other time this month he would’ve been thrilled to hear it. But it kind of stings that, knowing his history, she waited until he patched her up to say it.

He grins and ignores the tumult. “I do now.”

* * *

“Do you get the spins?” he asks Matt.

Not the question he expected to reveal _secret superpowers_ , but he'll take it.

Every time he thinks he’s got Matt figured out, there’s a new twist, and he _loves_ that. Keeps him on his toes. He thought Matt was a charming do-gooder until he beat up a defenseless pillow; thought he was straight until he slept with Foggy; thought he was a man of closely guarded secrets until he started sharing them.

He doesn’t love that Matt can read his mind, but it has its advantages. Now Foggy knows Matt likes him when he’s got nothing left to hide. And he can prove, beyond a doubt, that he likes the real Matt, not the G-rated version Matt puts out to the world. Not many people get that chance.

They stumble back to the dorm. Matt laughs when Foggy says his super-senses are too good a secret to share, but he’s not joking. He doesn’t want anyone else to have this.

* * *

After he tells Marci about leaving Landman and Zack, she goes quiet for longer than he’s used to.

“You okay, babe?”

“You and Matt,” she says. “Is there a history there?”

“Obviously,” he says. “We’ve been roomies since we started at Columbia. He wouldn’t share me with anyone else.” He laughs.

She doesn’t. “You know the kind of history I mean.”

“Yeah,” he says, puzzled. “A one-time deal. He had a shitty breakup with his ex and I helped him through it.”

She tugs at a thread on her shirt. “How come you didn’t mention that before?” 

He shrugs. “It wasn’t relevant,” he says. “It was a long time ago, one and done, no regrets on either side. You know my history, Marce— I didn’t think you needed a recounting of every rendezvous.”

She nods, but her eyes are thoughtful.

* * *

Matt is _beautiful_ in motion.

It took some encouragement, but he’s really hitting the punch mitts now, every movement smooth and sharp. Foggy knows barely anything about martial arts, and even he can see that this isn’t just boxing, or one or two styles. Everything’s changing, the angle of his knees, the depth of his stance. This must have taken years, _decades_ of practice, Matt must have been training since he was a damn baby.

He can’t believe Matt trusts him enough to show him this. It’s an honor. And since Matt knows about Foggy’s awkward attraction, since Foggy can’t keep it secret even if he tries, he lets himself _want_.

* * *

She’s doing this in public. He’s not sure if she wanted to keep him from making a scene, or if she wanted any scene to be as loud and public as possible.

“Marci, you’re not my _second choice._ ”

Her smile is sad. “Sure you even believe that, Foggy?”

Of course he is. He, of all people, knows what it means to choose someone. Being second choice constantly will do that to you.

Choosing someone is action coupled with intent. Turning towards them when they’ve hurt you, not running away. Waking up in the morning and planning your routines around them. Breaking those routines when they really need you.

Trusting, through the terror of rejection, that they’ll choose you back. That they want to keep you enough to _fight_ for you.

People fall in with Foggy, they don’t fight for him, and he’s resigned to that. But he’s fought for Marci, opened himself up to her over and over for almost a year now, and he wants to keep doing it.

And he’s human. Knowing what Matt tastes like, the fluid way he moves, the sounds he makes when he’s desperate... Of course he thinks about it. But having thoughts doesn’t mean anything. All that matters is who he chooses, and that’s Marci.

He tells her that. He tells her all of it, and her smile thins.

“I didn’t say anything about Matt,” she says quietly.

Oh God.

Oh God, she hadn’t _had_ to.

Foggy turned towards him through all of their post-hookup awkwardness. Plans every day around their friendship. Broke his routine to make sure Matt made it through after Elektra, to sneak into a gym with him and watch him punch things. Matt’s the only other place his mind could’ve gone.

There’s acid at the pit of his stomach, eating away at his certainty. The last thing he wanted to do, the last thing he’d _ever_ want to do, is make Marci feel like someone’s safe option.

“I meant what I said,” he says firmly. “I choose you. I’d pick you any day of the week.”

“Thanks for sticking with that line, Foggy.” She sounds tired. “Even through the end. I’ll miss you.”

He watches her walk away as the acid congeals into cold. He’d really _liked_ her. Loved her, even.

He gets it. He gets preemptively cutting him off before she’s cut up with jealousy, walking away from the possibility of being second choice. Lord knows he’d walk away from that possibility given the chance. But even though he understands, even though it’s not fair, he thinks: 

_You could’ve_ fought _for me._

* * *

“She was an idiot to have passed you up,” Matt says. Foggy can’t repress a bitter laugh and another swig of beer.

“Do you know that’s one of my _lines_?” he says. “God, I’m pathetic.”

“You’re not,” he says. “You’re kind, and loyal, and giving. I meant what I said, Foggy. She’s an idiot. It’s not a line.”

Oh, is he ever aware it’s not a line.

* * *

After they graduate, Foggy's social life isn’t exactly quiet. He and Matt go out for drinks on the regular, after all, which means bars full of lonely, vulnerable people. Exactly the crowd that comes to him for a tuneup. It’s not as steady as it was in college— random bar hookups don’t tend to talk you up to their friends— but it’s still better than being lonely.

When he goes home with someone and patches them up, the high-fives Matt gives him the next day hit like a blow.

* * *

Usually he’d just get over it, you know? Someone turns you down, you apply for a position elsewhere. You don’t hang around hoping they’ll change their mind.

But with Matt, he can’t stamp out that spark of hope. The constant flirting doesn’t help, like that’s just a normal part of being best friends with your ex-hookup. Maybe it is, for Matt.

Maybe he just doesn’t know what normal friendship means. It’s not this, sitting uncomfortably close, face to face and knees touching, Matt spilling more years of secrets into his lap. Dude has the tragic backstory of a Disney protagonist. He’s so fucking _strong_.

Foggy’s spent the whole night convincing himself not to close the distance. It’s easier to be practical if you’re not faced with your goddamn hero every day.

* * *

Or antihero. Soon as he sees that news footage he recognizes the shape of Matt, the smooth way he moves. Turns out when someone fills all your guilty fantasies, they’re easy to spot on video, even in a stupid Dread Pirate Roberts mask that’s gonna make its way into those fantasies.

So Matt’s the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. Figures. Matt doesn’t even choose the good things in life over Foggy— he chooses loneliness. Guilt. Now punching people, apparently, and lying about it by omission.

Foggy already had a complex, of course he did. How could he not, when his whole existence is being second choice? Even his birth mother chose her career over him. But it’s way worse with Matt, who he’d pick first in any lineup, in any situation. He has to admit that to himself by now— he doesn’t know how to _stop_ choosing Matt.

But to Matt, anyone, anything, is a better choice than him. And what sucks is, Foggy can’t even blame him. What the hell could Foggy Nelson ever do to help the Devil? 

* * *

He texts Marci.

They’ve been doing the reconnecting over drinks thing lately, and he’s glad about it. Partly because it’s good being around someone who just likes him; partly because Marci with a grudge is a terror from the abyss and he’s pretty sure he’d fail his sanity check against it. But right now he doesn’t just need someone who likes him. He needs a friend, a real friend, one who won’t _lie_ to him.

Today’s not a great day for going out drinking, with a hole in his side, but he’s got to compensate her for the trouble somehow.

“So Murdock finally showed up,” she says, as they walk down the office steps.

“Not in the mood to talk about him, Marce.”

“That’s unlike you, Foggy Bear.” Her voice is Marci levels of snide but unusually, he can hear concern in it. “What’d he do this time?”

He’s almost tempted to tell her. But Marci wouldn’t have the kinds of reservations about turning Matt in that Foggy does.

“Can’t say,” he says miserably. “Attorney-client privilege.” Not strictly accurate, but it’s something that Marci would accept.

She snorts. “Murdock gave me the same excuse.”

Huh. “Like I said.”

“He _also_ told me you deserved better than whatever game he’s playing,” she says pointedly. “For once, he and I agree.”

“It’s kinda too late for that, Marce.” Kinda years too late.

* * *

Eventually, he pulls away from the kiss, breathing shamefully hard. “No, Matt,” he says. “ _No._ Jesus. Something is seriously wrong with you.”

Except Matt’s not the one something’s seriously wrong with. How the hell did Foggy let things get this bad? What did he do to teach Matt that Foggy wasn’t even worth being honest with? 

Foggy knows Matt’s not really interested. Foggy had a window, right after Matt broke up with Elektra, and he screwed up his shot. He’s resigned to that. So where did Matt get the idea that the right way to cheer him up, to make him stay, was to stick his tongue in his mouth?

And why, _why_ was it so hard to stop kissing him anyway?

* * *

After the thirty-seventh time Foggy rehashes the kiss, Marci finally loses her temper _._ She sets her glass down hard enough that alcohol sloshes over the side.

“Foggy Bear, why are you doing this to yourself? You have better options.”

“Don’t give me that,” Foggy says, stung. “I take every option I’ve got.”

“You _shouldn’t_ take every option.”

“Easy for you to say, with your…” he makes a gesture meant to communicate her general hot blondeness.

“You’re plenty good-looking, Foggy. And you’re a good guy.” Probably his _least_ favorite of those compliments. “You don’t have to be someone’s therapist or their bad decision. You just think you do because the people who glom onto you know you’re willing to settle.”

Ouch. “It’s better than being lonely,” he repeats stubbornly.

She digs her fingers into her hair. “It’s not an either-or!”

* * *

However he let things get this bad, he’s got to fix it. He’s got to show Matt that telling him the truth is still safe, before he decides Foggy’s not worth the trouble.

He’ll give Matt as many opportunities as he can. Ask him about stupid shit, like coffee, but about things he really needs to know, too. The secrets Matt didn’t think he was worth trusting with.

He’ll show Matt he can depend on Foggy, like Foggy depends on him. God. He used to get sick of people calling him kind, loyal, soothing, but he’d give anything to matter even that much to Matt right now.

* * *

“Why do you have Clubtails?” Matt asks.

“I don’t know,” Foggy says uncomfortably. “We bonded over it.” He wanted to keep proof that that night really happened, okay, that Matt hasn’t always been this faraway stranger. That he was once someone Matt let close enough to touch the places he hurt, to patch him up. “I haven’t touched it since, though. I’m not…”

_A masochist_ , he’s about to finish, and then he realizes he’s about to tell someone who can _smell his lies_ that he’s not a masochist. “Not that kind of masochist,” he backtracks quickly, and hopes the embarrassment doesn’t show up in his heartbeat.

* * *

He just means to thank Matt for the Thanksgiving speech, and all right, maybe tease him for being maudlin as hell. _“I’m grateful for every burden he trusts me enough to share”_? Sounds like a goddamn love letter. But his thumb brushes Matt’s neck and the way he breathes in… Foggy knows this is gonna end in pain, but he moves closer anyway.

Matt doesn’t pull back. Just tilts his head, inviting another touch, and Foggy’s not even sure he’s doing it on purpose.

He could kiss Matt. He’s kissed more than enough people to get a sense of when he’s welcome. But he doesn’t know why. Why, after all these times Matt turned him down.

He’s got to understand. This bubble will pop eventually, and he’s gotta ask what this means to Matt. If that speech was what it sounded like. Because this is the least casually Foggy’s ever touched someone, he can’t trust his own instincts here. Can’t throw himself back into that pit without knowing Matt will be there to pull him out.

But he wants to so bad. He wants to say, _I’m grateful for you too_ . He wants to say, _we can share more than burdens, if that’s what you want. It’s what I want._

He tries to ask. The bubble pops. Matt mouths something that Foggy doesn’t recognize and backs up like Foggy’s hit him. And then he’s gone.

Foggy _hates_ being right.

* * *

The mixed signals, the way their relationship is circling the toilet drain, it all finally makes sense when Matt shows up to the office in a tux.

“Why are you fancy?” Foggy says, more dazzled than he should let himself be at this point.

Matt frowns like it’s an insult, then replies, “Went to a party with Elektra.”

Of course. Of _course_. Doesn’t matter how terrible they are. In a choice between him and an ex, Foggy loses out every time.

He tries to make nice anyway. But he’s not surprised when Matt ignores the attempt and disappears into his office.

It’s fine.

* * *

“So. Spill,” his sister says, after he’s done looking over her English essay. “How long have the two of you been dating?”

“It’s not like that, Candace. Besides,” he says belatedly, “my love life is none of your business.”

“Dude, you cannot bullshit me on this one. He _held your hand_ . He _gave a grand speech about your love._ And I’ve seen photos of you two. You know you always turn towards him instead of the camera?" Ha. Choosing someone means turning towards them. He didn’t know he was so _literal_ about it. "Can’t blame you for that, he’s _dreamy._ I’m a little jealous.”

“I’ll grant you that— but if you think you can seduce him, go right ahead. We’re really not dating.” He doesn’t suppress the sigh as well as he wants.

She frowns. “He turned you down, didn’t he.”

“Got it in one.”

“Shit." She wrings her hands together in a way that's familiar, he's really gotta stop doing that. "Well, if it helps, it looked to me like he was hella interested.”

He chews on his lip. “I thought so too.”

* * *

He should’ve known better than to keep dogging Matt for the truth. These opportunities for honesty, they’re not _opportunities_ to Matt. They’re not judgment-free zones. They’re traps.

And he’s right to see them that way. Foggy _has_ been asking questions with ulterior motives, just like Matt said. Forcing Matt to explain himself, to defend himself, just like Elektra did.

Foggy wanted to give Matt space and he’s been crowding him out. Throwing away years of hard-earned trust, just because he was too insecure to believe Matt Murdock could be his best friend and keep a secret at the same time.

This is what he does to the people who are his top priority. No wonder no one picks him first.

* * *

“Foggy?” Karen’s voice is tentative. “You’ve seemed… kinda down lately.”

He forces a smile. “That’s weird. I’m feeling just fine.” 

“See, like that! That’s not a real smile. Serial killers would see that smile and back away slowly.”

He lets the serial-killer-killer smile fade from his face. “What do you want to happen here? Do you want me to tell you shit sucks? Shit sucks, Karen. I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Yeah. Seems to be a habit around this office,” she mutters. “ Is this about… uh.” She shakes her head vigorously. “Nope. Never mind.”

“About what? Karen?”

She squirms. “Okay, okay!” The words burst from her mouth like candy from a pinata. “You and Matt have a history. Did something happen again?”

“You _know_ about that?”

“I don’t know any of the details!” She waves her hands vaguely. “My source made a big deal about it not being their story to tell.”

“Who did?”

“A good reporter never reveals her sources. Come on, Foggy. What’s going on?”

Karen just proved she can’t keep a secret. He really shouldn’t talk to her.

But he’s tired, down to his bones. He folds, literally, hunches over his desk like an old man. “It’s not… _not_ about my history with Matt,” he says. “But it’s more than that. I think I really fucked shit up between us, Karen.”

She stands there in that posture she takes when she’s not sure how cagey to be. Finally, she sits down next to him. “He’s liked you for a really long time, Foggy. Whatever you did, I don’t think it can change that.”

He wishes he could believe that. But he’s got the evidence of his entire past. It doesn’t take much for people to decide they don’t want Foggy in their lives anymore.

He should be grateful Matt even has a reason. Jonas didn’t. Rosalind didn’t. Foggy would rather blame his shitty decision-making than have to wonder what he keeps doing wrong.

She’s watching him with that reporter’s eye. “You still have feelings for him, don’t you.”

“Yeah.”

“Then you really ought to talk with him, Foggy.”

* * *

At the bar, he asks Marci,

“Did you… tell Karen about me and Matt?” It doesn’t feel like her style, but there’s no one else who really knows about them. No matter how much Candace teases him, all she knows is that he likes Matt and it didn’t work out.

“Who’s Karen?” she says, voice all frosty confusion, and Foggy doesn’t need Matt’s truth-seeking wizard hat to know she’s not lying.

He shakes his head. “Never mind.”

The only other person who knew about them is Matt. Why the hell would Matt tell Karen?

* * *

Marci calls him. _Calls_ him.

He almost doesn’t pick up. She’s a texter, not a caller: she only ever calls people to convince them of something. She’s only ever called _him_ for two things, work and sex. Professionally, he’s useless to her right now, which only leaves one thing.

Still, he’s low enough to pick up.

Her voice is brisk. “Can you be at my place in half an hour?”

She knows how he feels about being the convenient, safe one all the time. Even for Marci, this is cold.

“Seriously, Marce?” he says. “After the way you ended things?”

“Your call.” He can almost _hear_ her shrugging. “You picked up. I assumed you were still interested, or at least wanted to get smashed and trash talk people together.”

“Who dumped you this time?” he says. He knows it’s harsh.

“Are you going to come over here or what?” she snaps.

God, he hates how low he is right now.

“Fine.”

Her clothes are already half-off when she gets to the door, bra dangling from her right shoulder, sheath dress unzipped and wrinkled over her hips. “Oh good,” she says. “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to explain this to the neighbors.” 

She’s warm and familiar when she kisses him and he resents it. He’s never been cruel in bed, really cruel, but he considers it today. Considers touching her in the ways he knows she doesn’t like, absently, like he’s thinking of someone else’s body instead of hers. But he can’t bring himself to do it. He never really _stops_ loving anyone.

Afterwards, he rolls away from her and stares at the wall, feeling cold and wrong.

“This was a shitty thing to do, Marci,” he addresses it.

“I know. I’m _sorry_ .” To her credit, she does actually sound sorry, or at least distressed. Not sorry enough, but it _is_ Marci. “I’m sorry, Foggy,” she says, softer. “I just couldn’t be alone right now.”

He sighs and presses his cheek into the pillow a little harder. He can’t really blame her for that: he can’t be alone right now either. If she hadn’t called, he would’ve been at the bar all evening, waiting for an opportunity. “Well, as long as you know.”

“Look,” she says. He jerks his shoulder away from the hand she tries to rest on it. “It’s not just a… a breakup thing. It’s you. I’ve missed you.”

His shoulders hunch. “And the only way you could think to express that was a booty call?”

He hears a rustling, like she’s thrown up her hands. “I’m not good at this,” she says.

“Damn right you’re not.”

“You said you don’t get many repeat customers,” and he can’t help wincing, because of course she’d bring that up now. But she surprises him. “Want one? I know this isn’t the greatest start, Foggy-Bear, but giving you up that easily was a mistake.”

He rolls over to look at her. “Really?”

“Really,” she says, her cheeks a pink that’s unnatural on her. “If you’re willing… we could start with casual, take it from there.”

He considers it. Not being lonely again, at least for a while. Being close to someone who understands him.

He just… wishes she understood him a little better, is all. He’s exhausted, he’s burnt out, he can’t even _eat_ from the stress of having let Matt down. He could’ve really used a friend instead of this.

“I’m not sure, Marce,” he says.

* * *

Two days later, he does take her up on the offer. Marci sees his failings and likes him anyway, knows how to touch him, laughs at his jokes. It’s not like he’s going to have a better option. And he really, really doesn’t want to be alone with how he’s feeling right now.

* * *

Two _weeks_ later, he’s not alone with his feelings anymore.

Matt throws his arms over his shoulders, just like he did on the night Foggy got him so blitzed on Clubtails he thought Foggy was a good idea. He tries to apologize for the situation _Foggy_ messed up, looking so stricken about having hurt him. Asking if Foggy can teach him how forgiveness works again, for God’s sake.

It’s not practical. It’s probably not the right call. But he knew Matt Murdock was gonna be trouble, and if Foggy’s type is people who do Jedi mind tricks, he can’t really get mad when Matt uses them to convince Foggy that maybe, just maybe, things could be okay between them again.

* * *

They work at it.

They hit up almost every cafe within walking distance. Matt said he didn’t want other people overhearing their whole conversations: shaking it up should mean no one can overhear them twice. And realistically, if one of those conversations goes south, only one cafe gets ruined, and Foggy’s avoiding all of his favorites.

Matt having told Karen about their history bugs him, though. Matt’s a private dude. Banter aside, Foggy hasn’t heard a peep about anyone he’s been with since Elektra. So that means one of two things, both of which make him feel like he’s in Bizarro World.

One, Matt told Karen because he missed having someone to talk to without Foggy around. All sorts of reasons that doesn’t make sense— before Foggy, Matt didn’t talk to anyone. Not really his thing. And he’d expect Karen and Matt to act… he doesn’t know, _closer_ if they’d bonded while he was out.

Two, bizarro-est of all, Matt told Karen because he wasn’t ashamed of their history. Matt Murdock is ashamed of _everything_.

Maybe he’s missing something. But even if he can’t figure this out, even if the questions are eating him alive, he’s gonna keep making the effort.

* * *

They lose the Castle trial and months of effort go down the drain. Months spent fixing what he screwed up with Matt. Weeks of cramming legal research into his head until he could barely see straight. Dealing with Castle, tolerating him, for Matt. Because Matt asked him to, because he doesn’t want to set a precedent that could get Matt railroaded into jail.

After all that, Elektra is _still_ more important than Foggy, important enough to torch their friendship and their entire career for. “I was starting to believe you cared enough to be there when I needed you,” he says. “But you were too hung up on your goddamn ex, like always. I’m never gonna come first against her.”

He’s not even sure what they’re yelling about, after a while. The case, Matt’s irrational hatred for Marci, how shitty Elektra was to him, how crushing it is to be kissed as a manipulation when you’d give anything for it to be real. Or maybe that part was just in his head. He hopes so.

But it all comes to a halt when Matt says:

“When I kissed you, I meant _every goddamn second of it._ ”

* * *

The mixed signals have gotten worse. They’re not just mixed, they’re incompatible, one’s a country music station and the other’s Rumanian talk radio.

“Thanks, buddy.” Foggy rests his hand on Matt’s lower back. “I couldn’t have done this without you.” It’s not a platonic touch, it honestly borders on workplace harassment, and he shouldn’t be doing it. But Matt sighs and leans into it like Foggy’s water and Matt's the living embodiment of drought.

Pretty par for the course lately. Ever since Matt told him he _meant_ the kiss, that he wanted Foggy, Foggy’s wondered how accurate that past tense was. He can’t ask— Matt’s not okay with questions unless Foggy’s neutral on the answers, and he’s never gonna be neutral on that one.

But even though Matt made a point of not saying anything, every time Foggy touches him, he responds the same way. He leans into it way longer than he needs to, maybe even touches him back, then, eventually, jerks away from Foggy like he’s caught fire.

Maybe this is all wishful thinking. Maybe Matt doesn’t want him the way he wants Matt, maybe Matt wouldn’t choose him given the option. But Foggy keeps chasing that reaction. He can’t seem to stop.

This is shitty of him and he needs to make it right.

* * *

He breaks up with Marci over an oversized novelty cocktail glass of bruschetta at Bucca di Beppo. Here’s as good a place as any. She’d never come back voluntarily.

She’s not even surprised. “I wondered how long this would last once Matt talked to you,” she says. “You held out a few months longer than I expected.”

“It’s not…” He can’t finish the sentence. It _is_ like that, this time. This time, she really isn’t his first choice. He can’t pick someone else, and that’s not fair to her. “I’m not leaving you for him,” he says, finally, because that’s the closest he can get to the truth and be kind. “I don’t even think he’s interested.”

“But you’re still interested in him.”

He doesn’t really know what he can say to that, but he’s pretty sure his stupid face gives it away.

She rests her hand on his. “You’re pathetic,” she says gently.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Yeah, I know.” 

* * *

And he does know. He’s basically given up on a love life. Marci was the only person he ever wanted a future with other than Matt.

But even though it’s not practical, passing up a good option for no option, he’s content with his choice. He’s got a relationship with the person he’d choose over anyone. Not many people can say that. Maybe not the kind of relationship he’d pick, given another option, but after having lost him for a while, Foggy’s never gonna take having Matt Murdock in his life for granted again.

He still goes to bars, but he stops taking people up on their propositions. He’s too much of a mess to want to fix anyone else right now, and honestly? It’s time he stopped giving other people the impression that they've got a shot.

* * *

They’ve got a new client, a Mr. Blake, and Matt promises that this one can actually pay their fees.

When he gets into the office, though, he almost turns around. “No, no, no.”

“Hey, Foggy,” Mr. Blake says unsteadily.

Foggy had never actually known Jonas’s last name.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

At least he has the good grace to look apologetic. “I need your help. I don’t know any other lawyer I could trust.”

“Well, I know I can’t trust a damn word that comes out of _your_ mouth,” he snaps. “We are _not_ taking him on as a client.”

Matt smiles dimly in the direction of his ex. His ex smiles in the direction of his other ex, this is some kind of _existential nightmare_. “Mr. Blake, could we have a moment?”

“I'm _not_ interested in rescuing his ass from a bad situation again,” Foggy says, once they’re in the hallway. He made the mistake of getting that invested once. Once was plenty.

“Do you hate him enough to send him to prison for a crime he didn’t commit?”

...he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. “Can’t we refer him to another lawyer?”

“We could, but… the facts don’t look great. Other lawyers are going to see an open-and-shut case. They’re not going to care that he’s innocent. I’m happy to take over if you need to recuse yourself.” Matt’s got his puppy dog eyes going on, the ones Foggy can always spot even through his glasses.

Dammit. _Dammit._ Foggy can never say no to Matt.

Jonas is still gorgeous, after all these years. Foggy’s honestly glad that Matt’s in the same room, because it’s hard to regret how things went with Jonas when he can look Matt square in the face and feel years of deeper, more intense regret.

When Matt excuses himself to go to the restroom, Jonas speaks, his voice different from the trembling, unnerved wreck it’s been for the last hour. “Foggy, while we’ve got a minute… I have to apologize. What I did to you was fucked up, and I’m sorry. I shoulda told you years ago.”

“I’m glad you know it,” he says curtly. Matt can hear all of this, and Foggy doesn’t want to look even more pathetic in front of him.

Jonas hesitates. “You don’t get what I mean, Foggy, and you deserve to.” He straightens, visibly bracing himself, and Foggy feels himself sympathy tensing. “I never got back together with Brian. Never even talked to him again after we broke up.”

Jonas was right. He _didn’t_ get it. He _doesn’t_ get it.

“What the hell? Then what was that bullshit you fed me, Jonas?”

Jonas looks down at the table and draws a figure-eight with his fingertips. “I was in a bad place, and… you’re smart, Foggy, funny, _so_ talented. You were out of my league. I knew you’d get tired of me, and I ran away from my feelings.”

He sighs and taps his fingers. “I know it doesn’t matter much now, but... I wanted to be with you. I was just too chickenshit. You were always the one who got away.”

“...Foggy. Foggy, are you okay?” His voice is urgent, and Foggy finds, to his surprise, that tears are streaming down his face.

He wipes at them with a wrist. “It means a lot to hear that, Jonas,” he says. “Even now. Thanks.”

Marci. Jonas. He thinks of his forty-three people, and for the first time, wonders how many of them just never _said_ anything.

* * *

“My feelings about you are messy, and I can’t stop thinking about them. I’ve never stopped thinking about you.”

Well, Matt’s sure as hell saying something _now_.

The air feels thick and stifling in Foggy’s throat. He can’t trust this, can he? Things don’t happen to Foggy like this. Foggy stuffs his dreams to the back of the cupboard, ignores them until they’re past their expiration date, and then throws them in the garbage or donates them to people in need. No one ever donates dreams to him. No one ever gives him things he couldn’t even have dreamt of.

He can’t trust it. Has to hold onto realism here. But it makes sense. It makes _sense_.

People come to him when their hearts are broken and bleeding and he patches them up. Matt’s a Jedi, and he keeps taking battle damage. His heart isn’t ever going to stop being broken and bleeding. He’s never going to heal up and move on.

But he doesn’t want Foggy to fix it. He just wants Foggy to have it.

He just wants Foggy.

* * *

Sometimes, Foggy has to pull back on the realism a little. Because reality’s usually terrible, yeah, but sometimes it really, really isn’t. Sometimes, what he thinks is realism is just cynicism, and hurt, and a faulty understanding.

So after Matt outlines what he’s wanted from Foggy _since law school_ (Jesus, he’s still not completely sure he’s not hallucinating), after he asks Foggy if he wants any of it too, Foggy doesn’t say no like a realist would. He asks a question. One he wouldn’t have had the guts to ask before, one only Marci and Jonas and having to rethink their entire past has let him consider.

“Am I your first choice?” he asks. “Out of anyone?”

Matt opens his mouth, and the thing is. The thing is.

Foggy Nelson knows what it means to choose someone. He knows what Matt’s gonna say.

When you choose someone, you turn towards them. Make plans. Adjust to what they need. You fight for them, and believe they’ll fight for you right back.

Matt plans each day around their work and their friendship (and beating up criminals, but nobody’s perfect). He’s turning towards Foggy, giving him complete honesty, no strings. Giving him trust, which is not something Matt Murdock does lightly. When he needed Matt— after his grandpa died, after Marci left, after Foggy fucked up and broke his trust— Matt was there. And each time Foggy got hurt enough to turn away even an inch, Matt grabbed Foggy and stopped him with a kiss.

Matt has always fought for him.

* * *

Being able to hold Matt like this doesn’t feel realistic, but it is. The look of vulnerability and bliss on his face, the trust he gave Foggy tonight, that’s real.

Maybe he needs to rethink what realism is.

It’s hard work, patching up a broken heart. Convincing someone they’re visible, lovable, and worthwhile for the first time. Especially when he’s trying to do it for himself. But he’s got help, now, and the years of practice and work ahead, they’re worth it.

Foggy kisses Matt on the forehead, settles closer to him as their breathing gets slow and sleepy.

Damned if realism about Matt Murdock doesn’t feel just like idealism.

Always knew he’d get Foggy into trouble.

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from Alison Krauss & Union Station’s song “Take Me For Longing”:
> 
> _Don’t choose me because I am faithful  
>  Don’t choose me because I am kind  
> If your heart settles on me, I’m for the taking  
> Take me for longing or leave me behind._


End file.
